The Green Blade Riseth
by Kate Browne
Summary: An old acquaintance comes into Robert Hogan's widowed life while the KGB sets a plan in motion to kill him.
1. Easter

The Green Blade Riseth

Now the green blade riseth from the buried grain,

Wheat that in dark earth many days has lain;

Love lives again, that with the dead hath been:

Love is come again like wheat that springeth green.

In the grave they laid Him, Love whom Hate had slain,

Thinking that never He would wake again,

Laid in the earth like grain that sleeps unseen:

Love is come again like wheat that springeth green.

Forth He came at Easter, like the risen grain,

He that for three days in the grave had lain,

Quick from the dead my risen Lord is seen:

Love is come again like wheat that springeth green.

When our hearts are wintry, grieving, or in pain,

Thy touch can call us back to life again,

Fields of our hearts that dead and bare have been:

Love is come again like wheat that springeth green.

Words:  John MacCleod Crum

Music:  Noel Nouvelet, a medieval French carol

London, England: Easter 1968

Robert Hogan relaxed in the hot water of his bath.  _God love the British; they know how to make a bathtub--long enough for a tall man to stretch out in, deep enough to swim in._  He felt the tension melt from his muscles, and even his aching right hip quieted.  Capping a useless week at Langley, the flight from Washington, DC had been delayed on the ground for three hours and then had been a roller coaster ride over the Atlantic.   He'd never been so grateful to see Gatwick in his life. The drivethrough London had been torture; the good, clear weather had brought out every driver.  Upon reaching his Georgian townhouse, Hogan had made a beeline for the quiet sanctuary of the bathtub.  He closed his eyes in contentment.

45 minutes later, feeling very mellow, Hogan, in sapphire silk dressing gown, pale yellow pyjamas, and leather slippers, yawned enormously as he entered his kitchen.  As the lights came on, GDP, the African Gray in the floor to ceiling cage squawked.  Not even glancing over his shoulder, Hogan muttered, "Sorry to leave you in the dark, bird."  The parrot hopped from one perch to another higher up.  Ignoring the bird, he put the kettle on the boil.  _Mint tisane would go very well right now, and help take care of my scratchy throat.  It's also going to put me right over the edge._ He left the tisane to steep in a small earthenware teapot for a few minutes, crossed over to the study, turned on the radio. While Bach's Orchestral Suite No. 3, in restrained majesty, filled the study, Hogan pulled out a novel and tossed it on the table by his reading chair.  With everything carefully arranged for a comfortable evening of solitude, Hogan headed for the kitchen to retrieve his tisane.

He was just returning with his steaming cup when the front door flew open, and 20 year-old Patrick Hogan, 6'2" and rail-thin, burst through.  He heaved an English saddle to the foot of the staircase and swore virulently, "Bugger all!"   He'd have been a splendid sight in his riding attire--if he hadn't been heavily splashed with mud.  Patrick slammed the door shut; the townhouse shook.

"What the hell is going on, Patrick?!"  A heavy, cold feeling settled in Hogan's stomach; he knew his quiet evening had been shot down even before it'd really begun.

The younger Hogan's dark eyes flew to his father, and he cursed.  "Bollocks!"  He heaved a deep and aggrieved breath.  "I lost my seat, Dad, at the hunt.  Landed right in the biggest mud puddle in the whole blasted field.  And all because Lucinda doesn't know which end of a horse is which.  Be the last time I go out with that dizzy bird!"

'You were thrown?" 

"Technically, yes.  We were barely at a walk when Lucinda reached over to me.  It frightened Bedievere who reared up.  I basically slid off his back into the mud."  Patrick tried brushing the offending wet earth off his red jacket.  Instead, he spread it around.  

"Who the hell taught you how to ride?"  The cold steel in Hogan's voice brought his son up short. He pointed to the muddy saddle.  "Do you want to explain this? You have always known that I never wanted you on the back of a horse.   Ever.  How long have you been defying me on this?  Going behind my back?"  Deep hurt laced the anger.

"Mummy taught me. I think I was 4 when I first sat astride a horse.  Mummy was with me, of course."

"Of course," Hogan hissed in quiet rage.  Though he was mpressed at one level at his son's calm response under pressure, he knew the boy wanted a hole to magically appear at his feet.  "Go on."  

"After Mummy died, I took lessons with Penny."

"Robbie aided and abetted you." 

"In all fairness, you should know I threatened him.  I told him that if he didn't let me take lessons with Penny, I'd work for my lessons as a stable boy."  Patrick watched his father's face.  "And Uncle Robbie knew I'd do it, too.  So he gave in on the lessons so I could be thoroughly supervised.  His comment at the time was, I think, 'Dammit! You are so like your mother.'"

_Damn you, Miri! _"Indeed," Hogan breathed. _Well, Robbie, I guess you made the best of a bad situation._  "All right.  You've exonerated Robbie.  That still doesn't explain why you've defied me all these years, why you've snuck around behind me?"

"That's pretty simple, Dad.  You're bloody irrational on the subject of horses."

"Watch your language!"  Hogan snapped automatically—and wished he hadn't.  Patrick's patience evaporated, and the dark eyes, too like his mother's, narrowed in anger.  His son's lips thinned.

"Then there's the small matter of it being a connection to Mummy.  She loved horses, loved riding.  How could you deny her that?  Why do you try to deny me that?  What's your explanation, Father?  When you care to tell me that, maybe then I'll apologize for defying you!  Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to go get cleaned up!" Patrick deftly picking up the saddle and stormed up the stairs, taking two at a time.  From the top, he bellowed, "By the way, you should know I'm going out for the British equestrian team, and I steeplechase, though I'm hardly good enough for the Grand National."  He clomped into his bedroom and slammed the door.

Hogan dropped his tea cup, slumped against the wall.  The cup smashed on the floor, and hot, mint tisane created a greenish puddle at his feet.  After a few moments, Hogan, with considerable effort, struggled into his study.  _What a glorious conclusion to a miserable day!_  He dropped into his chair, leaning to one side, chin resting on the heel of his palm.  He couldn't believe that Miri had taught their son to ride; he'd repeatedly refused to allow it.   Miri'd known why, too.  Feeling betrayed, he closed his eyes.   But he couldn't blame Patrick for loving something he'd been brought to by his mother. 

"Dad?" came a contrite voice.  

Hogan didn't look up immediately.  When he finally did, he saw Patrick all cleaned up and freshly scrubbed, with his wet hair plastered against his head.  Relief filled the boy's pale face, and he gripped Hogan's silk-covered arm.  "Dad, I'm very sorry.  I didn't mean to wound you so, and I'm sorry you feel betrayed…."

"Hush, Patrick.  You haven't done anything more than be your mother's son.  And asking to know why I am like this about horses isn't out of line."  He took a couple of deep breaths, looked his son right in the face.  "I had to learn to ride at West Point, and I managed it well enough to graduate. I admit it.  I was a lousy rider, and I haven't been on a horse since I graduated.  I took a bad fall and broke a couple of ribs and my collarbone."

"That happens to us all, Dad. Those are the breaks."  He was oblivious to the pun.  "You're supposed to get back on the horse when you're able."

"I did.  What makes me insane about this is the fact I lost a serious girlfriend to a hunting accident.  The horse stopped dead, and Barbara went head first over the horse."  Hogan saw Patrick flinch.  "She broke her neck." 

"Dad, I'm a good horseman.  I don't ride animals too large for me or beyond my ability to handle."

"No, you don't understand.  Dammit!  Barbara was a good horsewoman, and still, she died.  That could be you, Patrick."  _It would kill me, kid, to bury you._

"Was Barbara riding sidesaddle?  Like Mummy usually did?"  When his father didn't answer, he added, "You know, with only half your bum on the horse and your right leg curled around a pommel?  Looks great, but a damned dangerous way to ride."

With asperity, Hogan retorted, "I'm not stupid, Patrick.  I know what sidesaddle is.  And yes, Barbara was riding that way when she died."

"Please remember that I ride astride, and not sidesaddle.  That gives me considerably more control over the horse."

Hogan abruptly stood up, ignoring his hip's protestations. "I'm going to bed. You're going to ride no matter what I say. I suppose I'll have to get used to your hunting, but do you have to steeplechase?"  _I want to see how well you deal with this when YOUR children pull mindless stunts like this!  It gives new meaning to parental anxiety._

"No, I don't. And if it will make you feel any better, I'll give it up."  As his father limped lightly out of the study, Patrick murmured, "It's not like I'm any ruddy good at it anyway."

*****

After seeing Patrick off to Cambridge for Trinity term, Hogan made it to his office in an unassuming, uninspired piece of late 40s architecture.  Tossing his battered fedora onto his secretary's desk, Hogan smirked at Mary Kaiser who raised a wicked eyebrow at him.  "So, love, what's on the agenda?"

She flipped pages on the desk calendar.  "Meetings all afternoon, Boss, and then on the plane tonight for Brussels.  NATO chemical weapons conference the rest of the week."

Hogan groaned as he helped himself to the only decent coffee in London.  "If I had an exec, I'd send his butt to Brussels.  Has Washington made up its feeble mind yet about who's coming in to replace the Friendly Ghost?"  Kaspar Goldman, 10 years Hogan's junior, had had to be medically retired and sent home.  

"You should know more about that.   You were just in Washington."

Hogan snorted derisively.  "Complete waste of my time.  I am so glad that Johnson is not running for re-election.  It will be such a treat NOT to have to listen to all the theorizing of McNamara.  He's so well named."

"Strange, huh?"  She disregarded his low moan at the play on the defense secretary's middle name.  "Did you see the President, Boss?"

"Never.  If I'm a really good boy, I'll actually get to see the Director."  Hogan seethed at the memory of having to cool his heels for over three hours in the Director's office.  He started to take a slug of coffee, but stopped mid-motion. Hogan noticed Mary's outfit for the first time--a black leather, one piece coverall.  _What the hell is it?  Whatever it is, it fits like a second skin, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination._  "Mary, do you really think your attire is appropriate for the office?"

"Boss, it's a cat suit.  A la Mrs. Peel."  

"Who?"  He shook his head.  

"The Avengers, Boss.  You dress like John Steed, Boss, right down to the cane, so the least I can do is look like Emma Peel.  Is that cane a swordstick?"

"What?"

"You know, television?"

"Don't own one."

"Believe that."  Mary sighed.  "There is no accounting for you, Boss:  no familiarity with TV, but you can whistle any one of the Beatles' hits.  That great galumphing weed Patrick. . . ."

Bernard Mays walked in, files in hand, cutting short the debate on pop culture.  "Morning all."  He eyed Mary appreciatively.  "Great outfit, babe.  Suits you."  She gave him a radiant smile; they'd been engaged for years in a running pun contest.  He turned to the chief, whose foot tapped the floor.  Bernie held out his hand.  "The reports on Czechoslovakia you wanted.  Dubček's hangin' in there."

"We'll see how long that lasts.  Any ideas on when Kosygin's going to go see him?  Or are they just going to send in the tanks?"

Bernie pushed graying blond hair out of his face.  "They'll probably do both."  

"You're 41, Bernie.  I shouldn't have tell you what I tell my son:  get a haircut."  Hogan took the files and headed for his office.  

"Well, since you are as OLD as my father, I guess you can talk to me like that."  He exhaled sharply, changed subjects. "Oh, by the way, GCHQ passed this little bombshell on this morning:  heavy new KGB activity in London.  Seems in direct response to our little bust up of one of their front organizations.  I suggest we watch our backs."

Hogan's voice issued from his office.  "Great, just great.  What is this?  Pick on the boss morning?"

As Bernie sauntered toward the office, Mary hollered back, "Why should this morning be different from any other morning?"

*****

"Robert Hogan is to be terminated."

Marya Sergeievna Butnitskaya warily eyed the platinum blonde with Tatar eyes and coloring who stood in front of her desk.  _You really should get your hair done in __London__, dahling; __Moscow__ hairdressers butcher everything._  Nonchalantly, the KGB station chief responded, "He is?  Says who?"

"The decision has been taken at the highest level.  Moscow is tired of being embarrassed by him."  

The criticism in the younger woman's voice was clear, but with deliberate disdain, Marya swiveled her high-backed chair around to face the window.  London's morning rush hour was in high gear.  Blowing cigarette smoke high into the air, she asked casually, "And what do we gain by his death?"

Raisa Andreievna Ivanova blinked twice. "I don't understand you, Comrade Bunitskaya."  

_You understand me very well, you silly cow.  Lenin love the British; they really know how to excoriate stupidity._  With sudden, feline ferocity, Marya whirled around.  "You're an idiot, Ivanova.  Would you like to know why?"

"I'm sure you'll enlighten me."

Smiling brilliantly with frosty eyes, Marya held up her hand, one finger raised.  "If we succeed in killing him, he'll be replaced by someone we know less well.  This is a distinct disadvantage."  Second finger.  "If we succeed in killing him, the CIA will retaliate in kind.  They're very good at tit for tat."  _And they will start with me, Ivanova, and I can't help wondering if this little plot is more about stepping over my dead body into this position than killing Robert Hogan.  If you're hoping for a two for one, forget it._  A third finger.  "Whether we succeed or not, you have forgotten our British adversaries, MI5.  And they have made our life increasingly difficult without your silly little plot ruining all our operations in this country."  _Security Service has made __London__ so tight, so confining that it is almost impossible to work here, dahling, and if anybody needs assassination, in my less than humble opinion, it's the head of MI5._  A fourth finger.  "And then there's the last:  if we don't kill him--and I doubt seriously you can manage that, particularly given his cleverness, deviousness, and unpredictability--we, meaning I, will have to deal with a very angry Hogan who is extraordinarily well tied in with MI6.  Those two agencies work together.  Do we need our allies in Africa and the Middle East overthrown?  No, Hogan's death is not worth the trouble it would cause."

Ivanova's fingernails bit deeply into her palm as she listened to the lecture.  "You're letting your personal feelings get in the way, Comrade."  Ivanova held her steady voice.

Marya flipped her long, russet hair back from her recently lifted face.  "Hardly.  If it were necessary, I would kill Hogan.  I would do it myself, make it look like an ordinary murder during theft, and not attract the attention of at least two governments."  Tucking her chin in, raising her shoulders, she spread her hands, palms out as if to say, See how easy it could be?

"Comrade Brezhnev doesn't see it that way."

"I'm sure he doesn't."  Dropping her hands, Marya shrugged extravagantly.  "My advice, Ivanova?  Stay out of the internal machinations of the Politburo.  I make it my business to never know theirs.  Officially at least."  _If Premier Kosygin does not deal effectively with wayward __Czechoslovakia__, he will undoubtedly be ousted.  And I think that would be a pity._

Ivanova cracked a slight smile. "Your advice is duly logged and noted."  She buttoned her chocolate brown wool suit jacket.  "You will co-operate."

Marya rolled her eyes.  _Who does this numbskull think she's talking to?_  "Of course, dahling.  I always do what I'm ordered.  How do you think I've survived all these years?"

"Good."  Ivanova turned on her heel and strode from the office.

_She makes me think of a badly dressed shark!_  Marya shuddered involuntarily as she turned back to the window.  The London skyscape generally relaxed her.  Not now.  _Ah, Hogan dahling, your death would solve several annoying problems, but it would also make the game boring for me.  It would be like losing an old and treasured lover._  Leaning back in her chair, putting her feet up on the window sill, Marya puffed thoughtfully on her cigarette.  _I would really like it if MI5 got to you, Ivanova.  General principle, dahling._

*****

The long baroque gallery with the high ceiling was filled with people bustling to various subcommittee meetings.  Hogan was jostled and bumped practically by everyone.  He stopped as he found the person he sought.  Leaning cavalierly on his silver-headed hawthorn cane, he casually said, ""You look enormously perturbed this morning, Steve."  

Prince Etienne de Poulenac, French deputy foreign minister, looked down his prominent aquiline nose at Hogan who grinned insolently back at him. With an aggrieved aristocratic sigh, de Poulenac glared, under hooded eyes, at the American.  A tall, spare man, the prince reminded everyone of a falcon at rest.  

"And what do you want this morning, Bobby?"  

To Hogan's ears, the French accent made the diminutive almost sound like Booby.  He tried to stifle a yawn and failed.  "I'd like to be back in London, but I have to be here, at this silly conference which seems to me to be nothing more than pure Gaullist cantankerousness."

"You must be tired, Bobby.  You don't usually start off by insulting the French government."

"No, I usually don't, but frankly, all we're going to do here is talk, talk, talk about stuff we don't admit we have and can't use anyway.  There are other things more important than this."  _Like __Czechoslovakia__, like the leak from the American Embassy in __Bonn__, like the growing agitation among the French student population, like…Oh, the list is endless.  I don't have time for this._  "So, you'll have to forgive me if I'm a trifle impatient this morning."  He pinched the bridge of his nose as a headache began to settle between his eyes.

De Poulenac gave a small Gallic shrug and started to say something when his attention was diverted by a middle-aged blonde woman in a dark green Chanel suit with gold silk blouse.  "Merde!" he swore..  "Quelle femme!"

Hogan swiftly glanced at the prince before following his gaze.  He'd never heard Steve swear like that before.  Upon seeing the woman, Hogan's heart lurched.  "My God!  Suzanne Lechay!" he breathed.  He hadn't seen her since her days at Stalag 13.  "What's she doing here?"

The raptor's eyes narrowed.  "And how do you know that woman, Bobby?"  

Real malice underlay his tone, and mentally, Hogan took a step back.  Insults over de Gaulle's policy of La France Seule were easy banter; this was something deadly personal.  He responded truthfully.  "I met her during the war.  She was in the Resistance.  Very brave lady, though at the time, I thought she was downright suicidal."  He gave the prince a bemused glance.  "She had this habit of pulling rank on me.  So what's with your vitriolic reaction?"

"Madame Lechay is a Socialist.  One of François Mitterand's nasty band.  More to the point, she is here to protest the French stance on chemical weapons.  Her position at the Sorbonne gives her some advantage--something I would very much like to take care of."

Hogan chuckled softly.  "Sounds like she's been pushing you around.  I'm glad to know that some things haven't changed."  He ignored De Poulenac's black expression.  "What's the matter?  Has she called you on violation of the Geneva Convention?''  The quick, sharp intact of breath answered his question.  "Well, I'll tell you what, Steve.  I'll deal with the lady for you.   See if I can distract her."  His saucy smile merely raised the prince's eyebrow; he slowly moved away, cane tapping evenly on the marble floor.

*****

After having passed from one useless meeting to another, Hogan thought his head was going to explode.  His headache had reached an unbearable level, stoked by frustration.  Even the gossip in the hallways had been uninformative or complete passé for his purposes.  Oh, there had been plenty of indiscretion, but nothing he didn't already know.  And he'd been utterly unable to catch up with Suzanne Lechay.  She'd closeted herself away with a known environmental radical; that had pricked his professional and personal interest, but it could wait until tomorrow.  A courier from London waited at his hotel, bringing him reports and communiqués.

From habit, Hogan walked down the busy street for several blocks.  The walk usually worked the kinks out of his body and cleared his mind.  It also allowed him to find out who was following him.  And tonight, he had a shadow.  _Okay.  That means a new hotel for this evening and meeting the courier at the secondary drop.  That alone will tip off the office, and two agents from Consular Ops will sweep the room tonight and keep it--and me--under surveillance._  Remembering Bernie's warning, Hogan wondered what the KGB was up to and knew instinctively that it wasn't good.  He grabbed a cab and headed in the opposite direction of his hotel.

Hours later, Hogan sat in the bar of his new hotel nursing a beer.  It didn't relieve either his headache or his anxiety.  He hadn't caught sight of his shadow, but that didn't mean the guy wasn't still there.  The courier had met him right on schedule, not that she'd brought anything earth shattering.  He drained his beer and got up.  He turned to go upstairs and go to bed, but a chicly dressed woman of medium height collided with him, nearly knocking him over.  

"Hey, watch where you're going, lady.  I'm not that steady on my pins anymore!"  He righted himself, but his hip hadn't appreciated the jolt.

Without really looking at him, the woman muttered, "I'm terribly sorry, monsieur."  She tried to hurry past, but Hogan blocked her way.  "What is wrong, now?"  This time, she did look at him and dark eyes locked.  One set glinted with amusement while the other filled with acute embarrassment.  "Parbleu!  It is you, mon colonel."

"You weren't content just to push or shove me around during the war, now you've got to mow me down.  After that, the least you can do is have a drink with me."  His hand guided her to an empty table. 

After their drinks arrived, Suzanne gripped his wrist.  The touch almost overrode her words.  "I had wondered about you so often after I'd gotten away.  I had long worried that you and your men had not survived.  And after the war, I had wanted to see you again but could not find you."  

Her eyes swept him. He knew what she saw:  the silver hair, the laugh and worry lines, the faint age spots, the cane and limp.  "The years have not been kind to you."

With his thumb, he spun his wedding ring around his finger.  He answered her more harshly and bitterly than he'd intended.  "No, they haven't."

"And you aren't just talking about advancing age, are you, mon colonel?"  

Her voice was soft and warm, the vocal equivalent of cashmere. 

Ducking the question--_what the hell possessed me anyway?_--he said, "Oh, please, I haven't been Colonel Hogan in 22 years.  Try Rob or Robert."  He deliberately used a light tone.

"Very well.  You do remember that it is Suzanne, Robert?"  She pronounced his name in French.  

"I remember it well.  Just as well as your presence at Stalag 13."  He'd never forgotten the reckless Dr. Lechay whose foolhardy plan had miraculously succeeded.  Closing his eyes momentarily, he savored the memory.  "We were there till December 1944 when we had to get out.   We all made it to England--just barely."  That boat ride could still give him nightmares if he thought about it in any detail.

"I am so glad."  She looked expectantly at him, a subtle, flirtatious smile on her lips.  "Robert, you've not answered my question."

Hogan sighed softly.  "You've changed some in 25 years."  He wasn't about to mention the fine lines around the eyes or the ribbon of white edging each side of the bouffant pageboy, "But one thing is still there:  you can't be deflected."    He shook his head, taking time to steady himself.  "To answer your question, no.  The worst thing that happened was I lost my wife.  She was murdered."  After almost 12 years, he could say it without his voice quavering.

Her eyes filled with tears.  "I'm so terribly sorry, Robert."  She choked back a sob.

"Suzanne…."  Hogan deftly wiped a couple of her tears away.

"Your loss brings it back to me that my husband, Honoré, died in one of the FLN's attacks on Algiers."  She stopped, took several deep breaths to maintain her composure. Algeria had ripped French society apart, had collapsed the Fourth Republic. "That was in 1960.  There is something about sudden, violent loss that never leaves you."  __

His hands took hers.  "I know, Suzanne. I'm so sorry.  It's not something I would wish on my worst enemy--and I've got a couple of those."  Her hands shook in his; Hogan gave them a gentle squeeze.  "As hard as it was, I did have the consolation of children."   Patrick and later Renate had made sure than he hadn't curled up and died.  Now, he could add his grandsons Nigel and Miles.

"Honoré and I had no children."  At his stricken face, she added quickly, "By design, Robert.  We were both research chemists with active careers.  We both knew that our own lives would be shortened by our profession. We could not in conscience risk any unborn child.  And there were things we could have carried home from the lab.  No, we could not do it."

_Not to mention your career would have been completely ended, Suzanne.  Even I'm not blind to that one. _ He whispered, "Gutsy decision.  Not one I could have made."  In a deliberately playful mode, decisively changing the tone and direction of the conversation, he whipped out his wallet.  "Of course, now, you have to suffer through the pictures of the grandchildren." Suzanne laughed throatily and willingly bent to the proud grandfather's demands. 

They spent the rest of the evening in companionable reminiscence, leaving only when they were thrown out of the bar at closing time.  As Hogan climbed into bed at almost 4am, he realized how attracted he was to her, how completely delighted with and comfortable he was in her company.  _I'm a 60 year old grandfather.  I'm a CIA station chief with a KGB shadow.  This cannot be happening to me.  I cannot be falling in love_.  Punching the pillow into shape, he lay down with a disgusted sigh.  _I'm too old for this nonsense._

*****

A stocky man in rumpled flannel trousers and nondescript wool sweater sat on the park bench feeding the pigeons as Robert Hogan sauntered into his hotel late Friday evening.  The man nodded with satisfaction.  Several hours later, close on to midnight, one of the hotel rooms burst into white hot flame.  The intense fire didn't spread, but it did send the occupants of the hotel rushing into the cold in their nightclothes.  The man, who hadn't moved in hours, watched the chaos carefully.  Robert Hogan wasn't among the milling crowd.  Giving the world a broad, toothy grin, the man walked down the street to a public telephone.  If anyone had overheard him, he would have thought him odd.  "Checkmate."

*****

Saturday morning dawned clear and peaceful.  It would be a beautiful day, if somewhat chilly.  Mid-April in northern Europe was not known for warmth.  Suzanne Lechay pulled her black and silver kimono tightly around her and closed the heavy drapes.  Looking back to the bed, she watched Robert Hogan sleep:  his face, relaxed and peaceful, pressed into the pillow clutched in his arms.  She gave a slight, gentle smile.  Despite all his protestations to her about his age and being out of practice, he'd been a tender and considerate lover.  And their lovemaking had reminded her of all she'd shut out in 8 years.  Sighing softly, she'd decided, that since the NATO conference was over that she was going to luxuriate in bed, in the warm intimacy of his presence.  Dropping the kimono, she slipped under the covers without disturbing him.  With a butterfly's caress, she stroked his head, his back; tiny moans of contentment issued forth as he rolled onto his side, still asleep.  Suzanne tucked herself tightly against him and closed her eyes, allowing herself to drift back to sleep.  She barely felt his arm snake around her, just under her breasts. 


	2. Sts Philip and James

London, England: Feast of Sts. Philip & James, 1968

Even before he opened his eyes, Hogan knew he was in the hospital.  His ears had picked up the tell-tale beep of a heart monitor, and his nose had identified the antiseptic smell so peculiar to hospitals.  _Christ! How badly hurt am I?  Or did I have a heart attack at the office?  The last thing I remember is the argument with Robbie over continued German steps towards better relations with the East, particularly the DDR._  Robbie had flown at him, demanding to know how he could even contemplate normalizing relations between those two countries?  Keep the damned Germans divided.  Dismissing the argument, Hogan opened his eyes briefly, swiftly shutting them again as the light proved too much.  Someone picked up his hand.  Hogan tried again.  Dark brown eyes met his own; Sir James Roberts, head of MI6, held his gaze--and his hand.

"Welcome back, old man."

"What the hell happened?"  Hogan's mouth felt full of cotton balls.

"KGB sniper shot you right on the office doorstep.  Unfortunately, the Earl's lot got a trifle overzealous."

"Dead?"

"Very.  But we do know who he was--Grigori Ilych Menchikov and new to Security Service eyes.  GCHQ has passed on all the information to your office, Robert."

The slightest movement, Hogan discovered, brought on waves of nausea and disorientation.

"No, old man.  I realize you're worried about your own security, but your efficient Miss Peel has already put your procedures into effect." Releasing Hogan's hand, Robbie scratched his forehead.  "In addition, there's more Security Service in this hospital, Robert, than patients.  And it did look for a few moments as if Dick Reynolds were going to have to kill a few people to get to you."

"And you've been hovering over me like a mother with a sick child," Hogan lightly accused.

"We've all taken our turn."  He harrumphed. "You've been out for a good six hours."  

Before Hogan could demand that Patrick and Renate NOT be told, Dick Reynolds walked into his room.  His lab coat didn't hide his kilt and socks, complete with dirk.  The American rolled his eyes in amazement. _This'll give me the opening I need to break up this somber mood._  "Dick, has anybody told you recently that you've got chicken legs?" 

The teasing insult went unanswered. "Listen, lad, before ye get enna stupid ideas, I'll have ye know that thick skull o' yers has got a nice, inch long crack from tha bullet.  Ye've got severe concussion, Rob, and ye're stayin' in hospital, if I have to bloody well sit on ye."   

The flaring accent got Hogan's attention:  Dick was really worried.  "And this?"  He indicated the heart monitor with a slight movement of his hand.  The electrodes made his chest itch.

"Ye went into atrial fibrillation for a few moments.  Yer heart settled down, but I want ye monitored for the duration of yer stay.  If it comes back, we'll have to do somethin' aboot it.  Somebody--one of yer lot most like--will be here with ye every minute of the day.  Access to ye is restricted by ma orders, only yer bairns, and only for short periods o' time."  Reynolds noted the savage glare at Robbie.  He finished his lecture. "So be a good lad, lie there quietly, and ye'll get out of here in a couple o' days.  To go home and rest for a couple o' days more.  Understand me, lad?"

"Yes, Doctor," Hogan replied submissively, his face the picture of meekness.

"Ye needn't mock me.  I'll give those two lost lambs of yers 5 minutes with ye."

Robbie moved off to the corner, and Hogan prepared himself to deal with his children.  He knew they'd be frightened, and their white faces confirmed that.  Watching Patrick hold up Renate made Hogan wish that Robbie hadn't told them.  _He probably had had Dick's full support, though, and with those two in alliance, I didn't stand a chance._  Shooting one last, red-hot glare at his friend who merely raised an eyebrow in response, Hogan turned to his son and daughter.  He spoke quietly, but with confidence.  "Look, you two, I'm going to be all right.  So please, calm down and relax--for my sake."

Renate moved forward, her emerald green, almond-shaped eyes shimmering with unshed tears.  "Oh, Papa, how can you ask me to relax?  How can you be so confident?"  She took his hand in hers.  

He gripped hers strongly and watched her carefully, keeping Patrick in the corner of his eye.  His tall, lanky son towered over his daughter by eight inches.  "It'll be all right, sweetie.  Trust me."   The tears fell, blotching her peaches and cream complexion.   Her black, wavy hair, generally tied back in a short ponytail to keep Miles' eight-month old hands out of it, fell around her face in disarray.  Hogan reached up with his other hand and lightly flicked some of it off her cheek, then wiped the tears away.  "It'll be fine, mein liebchen kinder."  She only cried harder.

Patrick leaned over and kissed his father on the forehead.  "I love you, Dad."  He paused, collecting himself.  "So, do what Uncle Dick tells you, or I'll help him sit on you."  He put his arm around his plump sister, studying his father all the while. "We'll be back later, when you're feeling stronger."

"Is that a threat or a promise?"  Patrick glared at him; Robbie snorted from his corner.  "No comments from the peanut gallery, please."  He looked his son right in eye.  "My head hurts, I feel like hell, and I have no intention of going anywhere.  Does that satisfy you?"

"Yes. Now rest."  

"All right. I surrender."  He closed his eyes in submission and let himself slide into unconsciousness.  The last thing he felt was his daughter's thumb tracing a cross on his forehead.

*****

"You fool! You incompetent! You've missed twice."   Marya hissed at Raisa Ivanova. She pulled up her shoulders, splayed her hands wide.  "Admittedly, the sniper ALMOST got him, but Menchikov accomplished his ultimate failure right on MI6's doorstep. Thank you for telegraphing our intentions to our enemies.  Why didn't you just take out a neon sign in Leicester Square?"

"Who knew he was going to start sleeping with a French Socialist?  Why now after 11 years as a celibate widower?"  

Marya laughed maliciously at the whiney tone.  "Now, you understand, dahling, what I meant by unpredictability.  Who'd've guessed the sap would rise this spring?"  The false mirth ended abruptly.  "Unless you've got a very good idea on how to wrap this laughable, worthless mission up with some degree of success--as in no further loss of agents--it is over, Ivanova."  

"It's a waiting game, now, Comrade.  We know his son is going to be at an equestrian event in two weeks.  And apparently, Hogan, who has never been to see his son ride, will actually be there."  It was thin; the intelligence came from their Cambridge informer whose information tended to be uneven.  "And by waiting the two weeks, everybody should relax, get a little bored, slip up a little."

"You hope."  Marya fixed the younger woman with a predatory gaze.  "Tailing the son to get to the father is very risky.  An all or nothing throw of the dice.  For Lenin's sake, let's hope you don't roll snake eyes." _There are such large holes in your plan, my dear, I could run the TransSiberian Railway through it, but we'll go with it_.  "You are, of course, assuming Hogan is going to do absolutely nothing about this in the next two weeks."

"Comrade Bunitskaya, he's going to be in bed for the better part of the next two weeks.  And even if he does go back to work sooner than anticipated, there is every likelihood they will play a conservative game."

"Whatever, Ivanova.  Have it your way."  Marya dismissed Ivanova with a wave of her hand.  

The blonde left, with considerably less self-assurance than the last time. Marya lit a cigarette. _You haven't learned anything from this at all.  He's going to do just what you don't expect.  That's Hogan._  She took a deep drag, exhaling a huge cloud of smoke, not liking Ivanova's plan one bit. _You'd better get him, or Hell is going to look very safe for us in comparison with __England__, for Hogan will figure out you used his son to get to him.  _ Marya remembered what had happened after his wife had been accidentally killed in 1956.  _I still don't understand what you saw in that woman. Or this current one, either.  Your taste, Hogan dahling, seems all in your mouth. _ Within a few moments, a fog of blue tobacco smoke enveloped the moody and increasingly unhappy Russian.

*****

Waiting until the auditorium emptied, Hogan carefully picked his way to the podium. It had only been 10 days since the KGB had given him the world's worst headache, and movement still could make him queasy.  It had certainly put a damper on his long, nightly conversations with Suzanne, something he'd enjoyed since Easter.  The injury, however, hadn't kept him from attending her presentation at the Royal Society. The theoretical aspects of liquid coal had escaped him, but her ill-concealed agitation and bad humor had been all too apparent.  Leaning heavily on his cane with hands crossed on the handle, his wedding ring no longer there to pinch him, he asked quietly, when they were alone, "What's wrong, Suzanne?"  

About to snap, she checked herself, put a slender hand on his arm, and murmured hoarsely, "Robert.  How are you?  I've been so worried."

"I'm fine, darling."  _Let's see if I can keep anything from Madame Docteur._  He wasn't about to admit to feeling a little dizzy.

She seemed to gather herself.  "It's been a horrendous day. The students in Paris are revolting…."

"Students everywhere are generally revolting," he quipped, knowing full well of the explosive confrontation between French university students and the French government that week.  Despite being out of the office, Hogan had seen the reports:  the pitched battles had been impressive, and it seemed likely to spread to other sectors of French society.  A general strike was a real possibility.

"That was so bad, Robert."

"Thank you. At least, it got you to smile." His eyes turned liquid. "I got the distinct impression there was more to your awful day."

Suzanne sat down at a desk and held her face in both hands. "Oh, Robert, the students have exploded for a reason--trebled class sizes, no access to facilities, remote faculty. These have been complaints for years, to which the French government has turned a deaf ear." Her pageboy bounced in indignation.

"And I'll bet you protested all of this." He sat beside her, gently drawing a hand into his own, stroking it softly.

"Mais oui. And that and certain other things have conspired to rob me of my position at the Sorbonne. I got the letter this morning. I've been terminated in the best interests of the university. No other reason."

"Steve."

"Who?"

"Etienne de Poulenac." Hogan remembered the prince's threat. _I've always known what a bastard you could be, but you've really proven yourself here. Don't worry, Steve, I'll fix your bandwagon._

"You call Monseigneur le prince 'Steve'? Only you, Robert." Her shock gave way to anger. "Sacre bleu! Quel homme!"  She balled her fists. "Do you have any idea how hard it's been to be a woman in professional life in France? In political life?"

"I would imagine the second is more difficult than the first." It sounded trite to him. He stood up. "Come on. Let's take a walk." 

It was a thirty minute hike to his home. The brisk night air had felt good, and for most of the stroll, he'd had an arm around Suzanne--and she'd leaned into him--as he'd listened to her vent.  But still, when he passed through the front door, he was very glad to be home.  He knew he'd pushed himself a too far. 

While he poured her a brandy, she looked around the study, noting the floor to ceiling bookcases, the Victorian furniture, the window seat with the embroidered cushions. The heavy formality of the room was offset by a giant fern overflowing its stand, by a clutter of magazines, newspapers, and children's books on the coffee table, by a clutch of toys on and by the window seat, by family pictures in the bookcases. The small coal fire gave the room a warm glow. "Such a peaceful place."

Hogan handed her the snifter and sat next to her. "Not when you've got one active 3 1/2 year old racing around and/or an 8 month old screaming. Throw in two irate, adult siblings arguing with each other in Welsh and German, and you have bedlam."

She laughed. "Certainly better than a faculty meeting or a party caucus. I might as well be the 8 month old for all that anybody listens to me." Draining the brandy completely, she put the snifter among the clutter.

"Suzanne, I have listened to you for the better part of an hour now, and one thing is obvious: you're profoundly unhappy. Do want to keep banging your head against French prejudice and the Gaullist establishment? Or do you want to get on with your life? What's more important to you?"

Having gotten up to pace around the room, she stopped to examine a picture.  Hogan knew which one:   in it, he sat on a floral-patterned sofa, pressed on his right side by a skinny teenaged boy and at his left knee by a curvaceous, teenaged girl.  "Robbie took that Easter 1961.  Patrick was 13; Renate, almost 17.  She's 3 1/2 years older than her brother."

"She looks more like you than he does."

"Patrick favors his mother.  But if you saw a picture of me at the same age, you'd know he was my son."  Hogan fixed her with a penetrating gaze.  "You're ignoring my questions."

Putting the picture down, starting to pace again, she responded without looking at him. "Interesting you should ask me those questions, Robert. I've thought of nothing else for weeks now." She stopped behind his reading chair, hands on top of each wing. "And honestly, I can say that my dismissal from the Sorbonne has made things considerably easier for me."

"You ought to tell Steve that. It would drive him up a wall." The thought the prince's reaction made Hogan chuckle. _Backfire! I love it._ "So tell me. How so?"

"I've been offered a research fellowship with the British Academy. And membership in the Royal Society."

"Wow. That's impressive."

"Oui. It represents a lifetime achievement." Her voice took on a wistful note. "But I will have to move to Angleterre."

"There's nothing wrong with Britain. I moved here 15 years ago and haven't been back to the States for longer than a month's stay." 

Her eyes widened. "Robert! How could you give up your homeland?"  __

He waved a hand. "There are some personal reasons in there, things I don't care to discuss with anybody anymore, but really, my job is here, my family is here, my friends are here. I got pulled into a British orbit in January 1940 and never really got out of it. Essentially, I can thank the war for putting me here. And it's mostly been a good deal."  She came over to him, put her hands on his shoulders. Holding her waist, Hogan looked up at her, and said, in a tense voice, "Of course, if you moved to England, my love, we could be together." __

"Are you asking me to marry you, Robert?" 

Not missing a beat, not taking his eyes from her, he replied huskily, "Yes."

She leaned down to kiss him. After what seemed forever, Suzanne answered him. "Avec plaisir, mon cher."  They kissed again, breaking off reluctantly.  "Stop trying to keep things from me, Robert.  You can't hide your overexertion.  To bed!"  Her raised arm and pointed finger indicated the stairs.

"Yes, dear."

*****

Hogan opened his eyes and stared at the alarm clock, not that it had gone off. It read 6:10am. He was supposed to be home, on bed rest, but it hadn't changed his habit of rising early. He debated trying to go back to sleep--and with Suzanne plastered against his back, her cheek pressed against his shoulder, her arm around his waist, he was sorely tempted--but decided against it. Not that he planned on going anywhere, but he didn't want to feel muzzy all day. Carefully sliding his pyjama-clad body out of bed, he gently tucked the covers around Suzanne and kissed her lightly. _She needs sleep more than I do._ He chuckled to himself, threw his dressing gown on, and stuck his feet in his slippers._ Your head hit the pillow, sweetie, and you were gone_. Softly closing the door behind him, he went in search of his first cup of coffee.

At 7:30am, Hogan called the office. He knew Mary'd be in. Her flat, American accent filled his ear. "Yeah, Boss. What do you want? You're not coming in, and that's final."

"Thank you, Dr. Kaiser." He paused to listen to the derisive snort on the other end. "Actually, I want a couple of things. One, call Le Monde and leak it anonymously to them that Prince Etienne de Poulenac has not one, but two, KGB moles in his office."

"That'll infuriate the prince." 

"It'll infuriate the KGB, too, since they just got them in there. And it'll leave egg on the Surét's face. Everybody can take the comeuppance, and I can't wait to see Le Monde's crowing." _Steve will be the first one to figure out what's happened, but by that time, his rump will have been nicely toasted._

"Okay, Boss. Consider it done. How's your head?"

"As hard as ever, Mary. What's on my schedule two weeks from now?"

"Nothing pressing until your son's equestrian event here in London that Saturday, and after that your annual cold."

"Well, cancel the cold and pencil in my honeymoon." 

There was dead silence on the other end of the phone. After a minute or so, Mary spluttered, "Your…your…what, Boss?"

"Hot damn!  Mary, you've been my secretary for 15 years, and never once have I ever rendered you speechless. Until now. Yes, Mary, I said honeymoon. That's right, I'm getting married."

"You sure your head's all right?"

"Yes, Mary. And so's my heart. Have a good day, dear." 

*****

Hogan's secretary put the receiver down in a state of stupefaction. Bernie caught her stunned look. 

"Hey, babe, what's wrong?" From her face, he was sure somebody had just died. 

She looked up him, her green eyes full of confusion. "Boss is getting married."

Bernie sat down hard. He ran a hand over his face as he crossed a leg over a knee. Finally, he said, "About damned time."

Mary nodded slowly. "I guess we'll have to stop calling him 'The Merry Widower' behind his back."

"He might appreciate that." Bernie looked impishly at her. "We'll find something else."

.

*****

Marya stalked around her apartment, her flowing electric blue silk lounging pyjamas whispering as she moved.  Her Russian wolfhounds, giant mounds of white fur named Boris and Natasha, watched her from their bed, the overstuffed sofa.  Le Monde, Le Figaro, The Times, and The International Herald Tribune all lay scattered on the floor.  She took a deep drag on her cigarette, blew an expert smoke ring, and smiled maliciously. "Ah, Hogan dahling, a thousand hugs and kisses to you!  I don't know why you wanted to embarrass de Poulenac or the French government.  Nor do I care.  I don't even mind you destroyed 6 months' hard work by blowing our agents' cover because it will certainly have Ivanova frothing at the mouth.  And I'm going to use that to MY advantage."  She took two more deep drags on her cigarette and created a cloud of smoke around her.

She suddenly whirled around, arms outstretched, cigarette holder held wide; the wolfhounds pulled their long noses back. Their short, deep woofs redirected her attention.  "Mama's sorry, my little loves."  They watched her suspiciously, cautiously. "But you must understand, that it is rare to use Hogan for housecleaning duty."  She threw herself onto her plush chaise longue to contemplate how best to set either or both the CIA and Security Service on Little Miss Ambition.


	3. St Dunstan

London, England:  Feast of St. Dunstan, 1968

"Oh, Rennie, calm down.  Quit fussing.  Just behave as if this were another Sunday dinner.  God knows it will be soon enough."

Patrick leaned against the doorjam, his nephew Miles ensconced on his hip. The baby clung like a leech.  He felt his sister's eyes rake him.  From her narrow-eyed, tense face, he knew she was ready to scream.  She liked the quiet Sunday dinner with their father. It was anything but quiet tonight.  Dad had dropped his bombshell that he planned to marry Suzanne and then had asked to bring her along.  So now everything, in his sister's mind, was fraught with tension. Patrick sighed, knew that Rennie's high emotions has contributed to her fight with her husband Paul and probably even to Nigel's being naughty and willful. 

"Funny, Patrick, very funny.  Can't you get Miles to sleep?" she asked curtly.  The potatoes began to boil over.  "Verdammt!" she swore.  The steam catching her as she reached over the pot to turn down the heat.

"Hey, Paul and I don't have Dad's magic touch."  He wiped Miles' runny nose with a handkerchief.  "Speaking of Paul, he's outside in the garden talking a smoke." His brother-in-law's pipe tobacco wafted a rich and aromatic plum, but it was too strong for indoors.  "What's so pressing that you had to have my moral support?"

"What do you think, dumkopf? Papa is bringing his fiancée to dinner." 

Patrick noted, with some amusement, that Renate always called their father Papa, never Dad.  _Oh, well, each to her own._  "So? Big deal.  Dad called me a week ago to tell me this, figuring I'd still be up at Cambridge.  I think the idea was for Suzanne to meet us separately, so she wouldn't feel too overwhelmed.  Remember, she's not a mum."

"I know that.  It's part of what makes me nervous.  How's she going to deal with Nigel and Miles?  But what upsets me more is the speed with which this took place.  Doesn't that bother you?"

Patrick sat down at the breakfast table and secured his nephew firmly in his lap before replying.  "Look, Dad met this lady 25 years ago, during the war.  They've renewed their acquaintance.  Clearly, there were sparks then, and they've burst into flame now.  I think you should remember that given their ages, they don't have time to waste.  And no doubt, his recent injury reminded him of that."  _It certainly brought me up sharp._  He read the profound skepticism in her face, her eyes.  "Rennie, Dad's been lonely and unhappy since Mummy died.  If Suzanne makes him happy, then I'm for it.  In fact, I think it's about time HE remembered that he's a man and in need of love."

"Aren't you afraid that Suzanne will try to take your mother's place?"

"She can't. That may be part of why Dad's waited so long to remarry.  So both of us would be old enough not to resent a new wife.  Really, all Suzanne is going to be is Dad's wife.  She's not going to be a stepmother." He cocked an eyebrow at his sister.  "Rennie, what's really driving this?"

Only the plopping and bubbling sounds of food cooking answered.  Finally, Rennie spoke, her voice faint to Patrick's ears.  

"It makes me miss Mama all the more."  

He caught all of the unspoken thought.  _If your mum were alive, then maybe, just maybe, you could have your parents together, like I had mine for awhile.  I don't blame you because I do understand: I'd bloody well like Mummy back, too._  He replied softly, "I know.  But let's wish our father well.  He deserves some happiness.  Right?"

It took her a moment, but she agreed.  "Right."  

A knock at the door turned both their heads.  "Will you get that, Patrick?" She wiped her hands on her apron, saying, "I'll take the little monster, if you want."

"No.  Let Suzanne find out what being grandmama is all about."  He gave his sister a puckish grin.  She giggled back.

*****

Bare-chested, Hogan sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his shoes. Between his grandchildren's unwillingness to mind or sleep and his daughter's uncertainty--he'd had to reassure her that Suzanne wouldn't come between them--Sunday dinner had been an overwhelming affair.  Compounding the tension had been Paul and Suzanne's argument over ICI's inadequate environmental policies. _Suzanne is sure to ditch me and flee to __France__._  He tossed his socks on top of the wingtips.  Standing up to take his trousers off, Hogan watched Suzanne in her long, rose silk and lace nightgown flit past him.  He got his belt unfastened before asking her, "Well?"

"Well, what?"  She picked up her brush and gave several quick strokes to her hair. 

"You know what I mean.  Were you completely overwhelmed by the family?"  He stepped into his pyjama trousers, pulled them snug at the waist, and reached for the jacket.  "Suzanne, I didn't intend for you to meet everybody all at once.  And the kids were supposed to have been in bed."  Nigel had been, but upon hearing his grandfather's voice, had come barreling out to demand Granddad  read to him.  After two Winnie the Pooh stories, Miles had had to be soothed, and that had taken some effort--even for Granddad.

She smiled at him as she pulled her side of the bed down.  "No, Robert."  As he looked askance at her, she ruefully confessed, "All right, just a bit.  Once your daughter got over her nervousness and realized I don't bite, she was very charming."

"Renate is a good German hausfrau."  Hogan knew what had driven her to making it her life's ambition:  stability and security.  _And while Paul isn't terribly exciting, he's certainly stable._

"And your son, well, I don't think I phased him at all."

"Nah.  It's hard to ruffle him."  _Not impossible, though.  His temper is pretty impressive when roused.  I should know; I've been on the receiving end of it._  "He's going make a good doctor.  He's got the personality for it."  Gingerly, he climbed into the pencil-post bed.  He'd replaced the four poster he'd shared with Miri not long after she'd died.  There'd been no way to sleep in it any longer.  "About the only thing Patrick's ticked off about is that we're getting married at the Registry Office, and not in church."

"Your children are Catholic?"

"No. Actually, Renate is Lutheran, though I think she goes with Paul to the Methodist Church these days.  Patrick was supposed to be Catholic, but ended up Anglican because his godparents--Robbie and Judith--are.  And this is in spite of the fact that he went to Catholic school for 12 years.  Or maybe that had something do with it.  I don't know."  _Forgive me, Miri, but I couldn't get over the hypocrisy of going to Mass when I don't believe.  What kind of lesson would that have been for Patrick? _ "Technically, I'm the only one in this family who's Catholic, but I lapsed years ago.  Last Mass I went to was my brother Ted's requiem."

"Oh, Robert."  

Settled against his pillows, a book open in his lap, Hogan looked over to her, over his half-eye reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.  "Don't tell me you're upset about not getting married in church?"

"Non.  I'm an atheist."  Her wire-rimmed half-eyes sat on her nose as she faced him.  "I didn't know about your brother.  I'm so sorry."  Le Monde and Le Figaro lay spread across her legs.

Softly, he told her, "It was not unexpected, Suzanne.  He'd been in bad health for several years, and the heart attack, his third, took him very quickly."   Hogan sighed deeply, ignoring the lingering grief.  "We'll go to Connecticut later this year to see my sister Maggie."  _I refuse to tell her tonight about Maggie's breast cancer.  I'm just going to blot that out for now._  "All right, the final question:  what do you want the grandkids to call you.  You'd better think about this because they aren't going to be allowed to call you Suzanne."

She bit her lower lip—which Hogan found charming.  "What do I want to be called?  I've not given this any thought. Being instant grandmother is a bit daunting."  She inhaled, exhaled sharply."I suppose the English is Grandma."  He nodded.  "But I think Patrick had it better.  Grandmama."

"Okay, Grandmama, you've got it."  He kissed her and tried to read a bit.  Giving up, he tossed the book and his glasses on the bedside table, switched off the light, and settled down to sleep.  

Within a few minutes, gentle snoring reached Suzanne's ears.  She continued to read, fascinated by the public embarrassment of Prince Etienne de Poulenac.  The rhythmic snoring began to have a tranquilizing effect.  With a yawn, Suzanne laid the newspapers and her glasses on the floor and turned out the light. She nestled against Hogan, wrapping an arm around his chest, catching his hand in hers.

*****

A man, of average height and stocky build, dropped the body of the CIA agent assigned to watch the Hogan house.  Moving on, he carefully neutralized the alarm system before picking the lock to the back door.  Creeping slowly forward on crepe-soled shoes, the intruder flicked on his flashlight, pulled out his gun, silencer attached. He tiptoed through the kitchen to the hallway.  Glancing up the stairs to where his target lay sleeping, the prowler heard only the house settle.  He glided to the study where he sighed.  Ordered to make this look like a murder during theft, the man wondered how he was going to accomplish this.  Making that much noise just went against the professional grain. The door to the study was open.  With the flashlight, he took stock of the room.  He pulled books and pictures off their shelves, hurled them to the floor.  He swept papers off the desk.

Frightened from his Tiffany lamp perch, GDP gave a loud squawk and flew past the intruder for the kitchen.  As the wings brushed his forehead, the man let out a matching shriek.  

*****

Upstairs, the noise woke Suzanne.  _Parbleu__!  It's that damned parrot.  Robert, that wretched bird has got to go!  I don't care if it is Patrick's pet!  It goes!_  She climbed out of bed, throwing a disgusted look at Hogan, who hadn't so much as twitched.  She didn't bother with her kimono  before heading for the kitchen where she found GDP sitting on the back of a breakfast table chair.  

"Come on, you annoying creature.  Back where you belong.  Why do you have to prove you can get out whenever you want?  Why can't you stay in like a good bird?" She shooed the parrot back into his cage and firmly latched it.

Turning go back to bed, she heard noise from the study.  Suzanne grabbed the porcelain-covered, cast-iron sauté pan from the dish drainer and went to investigate. Carefully, in trepidation, she slunk into the study, stayed close to the wall, but kept her weapon raised.  A flashlight in the eyes blinded her even as she screamed and swung simultaneously. The sauté pan connected with the side of the prowler's head as he squeezed the trigger.  The shot went wild, shattering the window.

*****

The scream and shot woke Hogan who came pounding down the stairs to find a dazed, but uninjured Suzanne standing over the body of the intruder.  After settling her on the sofa with a generous portion of brandy and wrapping her in the crocheted afghan, he made a couple of phone calls.  Within an hour, Hogan's house was filled with people, not least of whom where Sir James Roberts and the Earl of Suffolk, the head of MI5. 

Hogan, dressing gown untied, handed a bleary-eyed Robbie a cup of tea.  The Englishman accepted it gratefully even as the Earl declined, more interested in the unconscious man on the floor.  The mellifluous voice carried surprisingly well.  "I'm sorry about the disruption of your rest, Brigadier, but you've a prize catch--Vladimir Kornilov.  How'd he get so far?"

Robbie looked at Hogan and mouthed, barely audible, "Trust his lordship to cut to the heart of the matter, old son." 

Shrugging slightly at his friend, Hogan, who hated the Earl's practice of referring to him by his army rank, answered the carelessly dressed aristocrat.  "He apparently decoyed--with help no doubt--your surveillance team and attacked my man.  He shut down the alarm system and picked the lock."  _And Peter Newkirk would have done a better job, too._  "It appears the game plan was to make it look like an ordinary murder during theft."

"That makes no sense.  The KGB has already tried twice to kill you, in rather more grandiose fashion.  Why this simple ploy now, when we still know it's them?"

"Desperation, my lord?"

"Possibly, Sir James, but unlikely.  Your opinion, Brigadier?"

Hogan kept his voice carefully neutral.  "None at this moment.  My agent, Robert McCall, is still unconscious.  I'll know more after I hear from him."

Suffolk merely lifted an eyebrow..  Hogan read his mind:  _You know I've got ideas, but you know I'm not saying.  Very well.  You'll respect my silence--until it becomes necessary to have my knowledge._  

"Did our friend here," Suffolk prodded the now groggy agent with a toe, "say anything?"

"Oui," answered a new voice, "before he lost consciousness, he mumbled something.  I think it was Russian.  All I got was Ivanova."

Hogan watched Suffolk turn to Suzanne, didn't care for the way the earl's ice blue eyes swept Suzanne who'd been silently sitting on the sofa, brandy snifter between her hands.  

"Madame," he acknowledged.  

"Curiouser and curiouser," muttered Hogan under his breath.

Suffolk fixed Hogan with a penetrating glance. Hogan said nothing, returned a level stare. The earl said casually, "I'll take my leave of you, Brigadier, and if you don't mind, I'll relieve you of this miscreant."

"Knock yourself out."

After Suffolk and his prisoner, carted out by two MI5 agents, left, Robbie breathed a sigh of relief.   Hogan, equally eased, went over to Suzanne, gently picked her up. "I need to talk to Robbie for a little while, so why don't you go back to bed, sweetie."  Stroking her arms, he felt her body tremble.  "I promise I won't be long."  He kissed her forehead and then her lips.

"D'accord, Robert."  She pulled the afghan around her.

"Good night, my dear."  Robbie shook his head, adding lightly, "Remind me not to anger you.  I've no desire to be knocked about the pate with a sauté pan."  

"He leaves that to Judith."  Suzanne's smile widened as she left the study.  Hogan closed the door to the study and turned to his old friend.  "All right, spill.  What do you think?"

"I think what you told his lordship was utter tripe.  By the way, you didn't fool him."  

"Nor did you, Robbie."  Hogan shoved his hands in his dressing gown's pockets.  "He knows I've got ideas, but he can't put the screws to me. "

"Technically, he can't put them to me, either."  He held up a hand.  "We both know that law has never truly restrained him.  Marya?"

"Yeah, but she's got her own agenda--and I doubt my death is part of it."

"A little factional rivalry within the KGB?'

"Politburo spillage.  We both know that Brezhnev is the number one voice."

"He controls the party, even if Kosygin is premier."

"Kosygin isn't going to be premier long.  Czechoslovakia is going to make sure of that.  The liberal purge has taken out most of Antonin Novotny's conservative clique.  Dubček's got spine; his free expression, Western-oriented regime is not playing ball the way the hardliners, like Brezhnev, want.  One high ranking military officer has already suggested using military force.  They'll use it; it's only a question of when."

"Hungary all over again."  Robbie sat down, made a face as he drained his lukewarm tea. He'd seen MI6's version of that report.  "All right, Robert, where does this assassination plan fit?  I don't see how killing you makes their life easier.  If anything, it will infuriate your government, fuel the Suffolk's overzealous interpretation of his mission statement, making their lives nearly impossible, and generally heighten tensions among us."

"Exactly.  That's why it's not Marya.  This little stage-play this evening was for my benefit."  At Robbie's raised eyebrow, he continued.  "Look, this whole thing was a set-up, a phony attempt.  For whatever reason, she wanted to get rid of Kornilov.  She made sure he spilled the beans about the real force behind the attempt to kill me because she wants me to take care of this person.  I suggest that Marya is trying to save herself and/or keep the balance stable."  _Marya's__ got a brain in her head; she knows damned well, as does Aleksei Kosygin, whom I suspect she covertly supports, that there's plenty wrong with the Soviet economy.  And that is where power these days really lies._

"And you're the pawn…or the charwoman?"

"I resent the hell out of either position.  However, if the person behind this, our mysterious Ivanova, is one of Brezhnev's little minions, then we could expect her to take an intractable stance--if she stepped into Marya's shoes.  Therefore, it's in our interests to do Marya's bidding.  And that's what I hate the most."

"And Andropov, our charming KGB head?  Suppose Ivanova is his girl?  For all you know, Marya's real goal is to remove Ivanova, thus ridding herself of a hated rival, while at the same time carrying out Ivanova's mission of killing you and garnering the glory and the salvation for herself."

Hogan shuddered. "A distinct possibility, Robbie, but I really do think this is more along the lines of blocking factional fallout and keeping things at the status quo ante.  Marya's always been a survivor.  And her survival is best guaranteed by nothing changing too much. But there's one thing that Ivanova, Brezhnev, Andropov, and the rest need to understand."

"What's that?"

"I have no intention of kicking the bucket any time soon. I plan to die in my own bed at a very old age."

"I hope you can pull it off, old man."

"Don't worry, Robbie, I will.  But I'm going to need a little help from my good friend, the earl of Suffolk."

The Englishman's dark eyes widened before he burst out laughing.  "Only you, Robert, would use the earl for your own ends," he choked out between gales.

*****

An hour or so after the head of MI6 went home, ostensibly to bed, Hogan desultorily picked up the mess in the study.  His brain turned over various schemes of getting the earl do what he wanted.  Nothing he really liked presented itself--largely because the pain radiating from his hip clouded his thoughts.  He was beginning to pay for the run down the stairs. "Aw, to hell with it," he muttered after setting a battered picture back on the shelf. "I'll finish this later."  Turning out the lights, he headed upstairs where he almost collided with his blinking son.  

Clad only his Jockey shorts, Patrick looked really pathetic and starved.  Hogan could count the ribs from a distance of three feet.  The tangled mop of salt and pepper hair only added to the effect.  Hogan stared at him dumfoundedly.  "Good grief, Patrick!  You wake up now, after all the hoopla?"

"The light woke me up."  He scratched his abdomen.  "So what happened?"

"Oh, nothing much.  Just that the KGB broke in, trashed the study, and took a shot at Suzanne, scaring the hell out of her."

"Oh, okay," Patrick mumbled at his father.

Forcibly turning his son around, Hogan marched the young man into his bedroom, a disaster area in its own right.  "You're hopeless.  Go back to sleep."  He waited until Patrick had crawled back under the duvet before leaving.  Shaking his head, he retreated to his own bed.  _A Saturn booster could lift off from next to your head, kid, and you wouldn't wake up._


	4. Venerable Bede

London, England:  Feast of the Venerable Bede, 1968

Raisa Ivanova practically breathed fire as she strode into her office in the Soviet Embassy.  Mikhail Mikhailovich Scharmanski and Gennadi Aleksandrovich Zhulin, two tall, regular-featured, Russian men, glanced at each other.  Zhulin asked quietly, "What's the news, Comrade Ivanova?"

She glared at Zhulin.  "I've just been dressed down--again--by Comrade Bunitskaya.  Blamed for the failure of the weekend's attempt on Hogan."

"We didn't execute that one," muttered Scharmanski.

"Not only did it fail, it cost us Kornilov."  Ivanova sucked in her lower lip and bit it.  The two men kept their faces composed.  "Despite the fact that Bunitskaya plays her own game—the result being our demise--we continue in our mission, comrades."  Ivanova answered their unspoken question.  "Where do we stand?"

"Marko Khartagian is our sniper; he's going to take out the target while he's watching his son ride," responded Zhulin.  "And of course I will be there to follow through if necessary."

"That's nice."

Scharmanski added, "And for a backup, plastic explosives on the brake lines.  We'll wire it so that when he steps on the brakes at speed, there'll be nothing there.  He'll lose control and crash."

She snapped crossly, "And what good does that do us?  It could be weeks or months before he stands on the breaks at the right speed.  Anything less than 40mph won't guarantee his death."

"He's leaving from the arena for the Lake District on his honeymoon.  Hogan drives like an Englishman--fast on these narrow country roads.  A loss of control at 60mph, and he goes into a stone wall, so common in the countryside."  Scharmanski smacked his left fist into his right palm in emphasis.

Wagging her platinum blonde head, she mused, "That should do the trick.  Especially since nobody will be there to save him."  She gave a tight-lipped smile that accentuated her frigid eyes.  _No one will be there to save you, either, Bunitskaya.  Giving Vlad to the other side was a mistake._

*****

Hogan sighed nervously as they walked toward the stables.  Patrick had insisted upon their seeing Nimue, his new horse, up close.  The thought gave Hogan the shivers.  _Aside from the fact that I hate horses, Patrick, I'd like to throttle your Aunt Angharad._  When questioned about "his" horses--there was no way Patrick could've afforded them on his own--his son had confessed that his aunt had given him both Bedievere and Nimue as Christmas presents.  _Even if I confronted you, Angharad, you'd only look up at me, give me that enigmatic smile of yours, and say, 'That's what you get for being such a blithering idiot, boyo.'_  He shook his head and recognized that he took as much abuse from Angharad as he did from Maggie. _Sisters!  What do you do with them?_

Just outside the stables, he took a couple of deep breaths. Suzanne took his arm in hers, trying to comfort him.  He patted her arm.  "I'll be all right."

"Absolument, Robert."

He knew she didn't believe him.  "I promised Patrick I would be here--to meet his horse and to watch him ride.  I figure he picked show jumping so I wouldn't panic so much."

"Trust him, cheri."

Hogan exhaled sharply.  "Yeah."  He wasn't about to argue with his new wife; a quarrel was no way to start off a honeymoon. 

They'd only gotten married that morning--with his children as witnesses.  Patrick had beamed with pleasure after signing the certificate._ Well, it's not every day you stand up for your old man_.  Renate had seemed more ambivalent.  _She's still not too sure about this.  Oh, well, she's just going to have to get over it._  Hogan's patience with his daughter had reached its limit.  

"Dad! Suzanne!"  Patrick's baritone, slightly deeper than his father's, sang out.

Hogan squared his shoulders and followed Suzanne over his son. Patrick held the bridle of a seemingly enormous, dapple-grey horse with a black blaze and one black stocking.   The mare snorted and tried to step back at their approach.  "My God, Patrick, she's a giant!"

"She's 16 1/2 hands high, Dad, and all thoroughbred."

"Is that why she's so nervous?"

Patrick looked at his father's rather pale face.  "No.  She knows you're afraid of her.  She picked up the scent."  Nimue tossed her black mane and tried to move backwards again.  Patrick held her firmly. 

"Why aren't you riding your other horse, Patrick?"  Suzanne tried to deflect the current of nervous energy.

"Bedievere is too placid in temperament, a little too slow for show jumping.  Nimue is younger and full of spunk.  She's got the speed; we've just got to work on our precision.  Bedievere's better at the hunt.  At least right now.  He never seems to tire and has the surest feet I've ever seen."

"And Bedievere is the one that dumped you," Hogan added dryly.

"Lucinda practically put her hand in his eye.  If I did that to you, you'd at least step back."  __

Suzanne stepped closer to Nimue and raised her hand as if to stroke her nose.  Patrick forestalled her.  "I wouldn't do that.  Nimue's a nipper, the one thing I don't like about her.   Isn't that right, old girl?"  Nimue whinnied as Suzanne moved back to her husband's side.

"She's a nice horse, Patrick, but I think we'll go find our seats and wait for you to show us what she can do."

Hogan practically collapsed in his seat. Suzanne leaned over him, "Robert, he's going to be fine."  She sat next to him, pulling him by the arm as close to her as possible.  "Stop worrying."

"Can't do it, Suzanne."  _And then there is the other thing_. He scanned the arena.  Bernie, Mary, and Francis Coopersmith were all out there somewhere.  _And Lord knows how many of the earl's lot.  _GCHQ had taken the bait beautifully, passing on all the necessary intelligence to Suffolk._  Some days, that man reminds me of Pavlov's dog._

A new, American voice broke his concentration.  "Hey, Boss."  Mary Kaiser looked at Suzanne.  "Mrs. Hogan."

Hogan craned his head around, only to snap it back to keep from laughing at her.  After a few moments, he asked, in carefully measured tones, "Who are you today?  Scarlett O'Hara?"  The frilly, floaty green dress seemed so out of character, and the matching hat was really over the top.

"How I am supposed to know what you wear to these things?  I'm from Upstate New York.  We go and bet on the harness races.  We don't watch the horses jump up and down with prissy little riders on their backs and behave as if we were at a tea party."

"Tell that to Patrick.  I don't think he'd be pleased."  Hogan closed his eyes in pain, recalling the last verbal confrontation his secretary and his son had had.  "On second thought, don't.  Bernie and I've got better things to do with our time than break up fights between you two.  Anyway, I suppose you want to tell me something."

"Just here to protect you, Boss." She cut off his protests.  "You forget I'm just as much a field agent as Bernie and Fran--even if I do sit in the office as your secretary.  I keep up my skills."  

Hogan heard the touch of frost in her tone.  "Fine."  He turned back around to see an unknown rider knock poles down at the water jump.  He glanced at his program.  Patrick would soon be up.

*****

Marko Khartagian, a slender young man from Armenia, took up his position on the opposite side of the arena.  He'd been planted two weeks earlier among the stable hands.  Fortunately, he knew about horses, and they'd all been lovely to him.  He'd carefully hidden his weapon and silencer in the tack room, retrieving them only now.  Khartagian got down on his belly, put the rifle on its short stand, and fixed his target within the crosshairs.  Now, he'd wait until the son appeared on the scene to distract the target's attention.

*****

Patrick Hogan began his second run of the competition and dropped a bar on the second jump.  _Mistimed that one_.  Nimue took to the next two with flying colors only to pick up too much speed and have to be restrained at the next one.  Two poles this time.  _Get your mind on the task at hand, James Patrick!  _He managed to clear three more without fault, but this ride wasn't going to produce anymore points than the last one, improving his standing not one whit. He allowed Nimue her head a little in anticipation of the water jump, but he caught something out of the corner of his eye.  _Why is that man lying down on the gangway?_  Before he even fully understood, he'd turned Nimue towards the man, touching her flanks with his heels.  She bolted.

*****

Marko Khartagian heard the thundering hooves before he saw the horse bearing down on him.  Instinctively, he ran.  

*****

Mary twigged to Patrick's actions.  Shoving Hogan and Suzanne down, she pulled her walkie-talkie out of her purse.  "Bernie, Fran, the east gangway!  Now!  A sniper being chased by horse and rider!"  Mary had her own pistol drawn.  A good thing, since Gennadi Zhulin bounded down the stairway opposite to her.  She saw him pull his piece.  She drew into a proper stance, with the free hand supporting her gun wrist, and dropped the KGB agent before he even had a chance.  Looking for other hitters, she motioned to Hogan.  "Let's get the hell outta here."

*****

Khartagian thought his lungs were going to burst.  He didn't look back, but the sound of a galloping horse came ever closer. _If only I can make it over the fence_.  People yelled and screamed around him.  Oblivious, he focused only on the fence.  Suddenly, a white hot pain flared through his upper body.  Khartagian glanced down to see red spreading from a shoulder wound.  _I can't let it affect me.  It does not matter!  It does not matter!_  It did matter.  He ran right into the fence, but with his shoulder shot, he couldn't make it over.  He turned to face the horseman who'd pulled up sharply on the reins.  The huge horse reared, and Khartagian thought for sure the flailing front hooves were going to smash his head like a melon. They missed him by inches. The sniper tried to move sideways; the horse danced in front of him.  After a few moments, the Armenian gave up.  The rider had remarkable dressage ability, and the cold, deadly look in his fathomless black eyes turned Khartagian's stomach.  He was greatly relieved when two American agents, both sucking wind, both with weapons drawn, came up.  The sniper sank to the ground in surrender.

*****

Suzanne Hogan had had enough of her husband's brooding silence.  "Robert, everyone, except the assassins, is uninjured.  Frightened, yes, but perfectly all right."   

"I don't want to discuss it."

She was ready to strangle him.  Unwilling to let go, she said bluntly, "Had not Patrick driven off that sniper, you would be dead.  Be grateful.  I am."

"Suzanne, what he did was so incredibly idiotic.  He could so easily have been killed."  Hogan was happy to focus on the road before him.  A curve came up; he downshifted.  The burgundy Jaguar saloon performed smoothly, rode amazingly well.  

"And that's why you almost tore his head off."  Suzanne would never forget Patrick's crushed expression--or the flowing tears.

Hogan gripped the wheel tightly.  His knuckles showed white.  "All right, Suzanne, I'll admit I was too hard on the boy." The deeply wounded look, those lustrous black eyes brilliant with tears, had made an impression.  So had the willingness, despite the emotional display, to stand up for himself.  Hogan had been torn between terror and pride.  _Patrick is SO like his mother--even down to daring, stupid stunts!_  "But he needed to know that what he did would have gotten him killed had he not been so lucky.  A more experienced agent--someone like Bernie Mays or worse, the earl--would have stood his ground and shot the horse.  A tumble from a horse at full gallop would've resulted in serious injury if not death.  And if the fall didn't kill him, the assassin would have finished the job.  No, Patrick was just damned lucky."  Hogan started shaking again.  _Concentrate on the road, Rob, or you'll be in a ditch before you know it.  _He shifted up to fourth gear. __

"The difference between bravery and foolhardiness depends on one's success, Robert, and not only do you know that, you've lived by that."

Hogan snorted.  _If that isn't the pot calling the kettle black._"Not anymore.  Amateur hour ended many years ago.  And I've gotten older, if not wiser."  _Today's agent makes the WWII operative look like a babe in the woods. The amount of training is simply orders of magnitude more in depth and intense. Conditions and technology demand it._  

He inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly before adding, "Suzanne, if I have to choose between Patrick or myself taking the dive, it's going to be me.  No question.  You don't like that, he doesn't like that, but that's the way it is."  He hoped that would put an end to this discussion.  

"Robert, contrary to what you may think, I do understand.  He's your son, and you'll guard him to your dying breath.  You're as protective as any lioness with cubs."

He chuckled softly before downshifting again.  He hated the blind curves of English country roads.  Thankfully, they hadn't seen any sheep.  "Make that a lion with cubs.  Until very recently, I've been missing a lioness."  He waggled his eyebrows at her.   She gave a slight head toss.  "Seriously, I've had be both mom and dad.  And let me tell you, that's hard duty."

"You've done a wonderful job, Robert."

"I had help.  Robbie and Judith, Winifred Trelawny, Dick and Margaret, but most especially Angharad."  He shook his head.  "She was a God-send when I got Renate."  His sister-in-law had taken his daughter to her heart, without question or fuss, just as if she'd been Miri's.  Renate called her Aunt Angharad, too.

Keeping silent, Suzanne gave his arm a gentle squeeze and saw the small smile_. _Suddenly, she yawned.

"Tired, love?"

"Oui," she mumbled at the end of another yawn.  "It's been a draining day."

"Not exactly what I had planned for our wedding day."  He heard her giggle softly; she settled against the tan leather.  "Why don't you take a nap?  Since we got  such a late start, it's going to be another hour before we arrive."  He had a good straightaway.  Back up to fourth gear.  He glanced over to see her close her eyes.

His wife had no sooner fallen asleep than another blind curve came up.  This one wasn't as tight as previous ones, so Hogan simply backed off the accelerator.  His eyes narrowed in consternation as he saw the flock of sheep crossing the narrow road. They were moving from pasture to pasture and had the right of way. The stone wall on the left side of the road only complicated matters. 

"Dammit!" he swore loudly, slamming on the brakes.  He felt the color fade from his face when he heard the faint popping sounds.  His foot found no hydraulic pressure. _Oh, Christ, the sheep or the wall?!_  He managed to downshift to third before striking the first sheep. 

Jolted awake, Suzanne didn't scream, though fear suffused her face.  The bonnet and undercarriage of the car began to fold under. Hogan managed to shift down to second.  He tried to get down to first, but the saloon plowed into a large sheep and bounced off towards the wall.  The left side of the car sheared the wall, catching just enough to spin the Jaguar out of Hogan's control.  Finally, the saloon bounced to a stop. 

Bleeding profusely from a cut on his forehead, Hogan looked up from the steering wheel.  Suzanne lay unmoving next to him, and a mangled sheep draped across what was left of the bonnet. Fading out of consciousness, all he could think was _Rah, rah, sis-boom-baa!_

*****

Raisa Ivanova waited impatiently at Heathrow to board the Aeroflot flight to Moscow.  Comrade Andropov was not going to be at all pleased by Bunitskaya's interference. It had proven particularly costly.  But at least the mission had--finally--succeeded.  Hogan was dead and no longer a menace to Soviet plans.

A nasal British voice spoke distinctly in her ear.  "Please come with us, Miss Ivanova."  She stiffened as she felt the cold steel of a Browning 9mm in her back.  From under her lashes, she glanced at her captors--one on either side of her, both tall, beefy, and unyielding.  _Standard British issue_.  Relaxing slightly, she seemed to acquiesce.  As the two plainclothes men each took an elbow, Ivanova stomped hard on the instep of the man on her right and drove an elbow into his midsection.  As he doubled over, she forced him into his colleague, knocking both over like bowling pins.  Hurdling the two downed agents, she sprinted for the car park.   

A single gunshot rang out.  Ivanova toppled over; momentum crashed her into a glass door.  The earl of Suffolk looked down on the Russian.  "Bad move, old girl."

Panting heavily because of the chest wound, Ivanova glared upwards.  "I have diplomatic immunity, and you have just created a diplomatic incident," she managed.

"Hardly my dear.  On either count."  He watched the eyes narrow to slits.  "Your government has disavowed you completely.  You are merely an assassin who will stand in the dock at Her Majesty's pleasure" 

The coldly civilized tone got through her pain-fogged brain.  She took in the faint smile and realized she'd lost.  The two plainclothesmen arrived, stood guard over her; she moved her tongue to a back molar.  She never thought she'd ever have to use this, but better poison than Interrogation at the hands of the enemy.  Her tongue pushed against the false molar, but it jerked forward as the earl roughly pried her mouth open.  

"I don't think so, Miss Ivanova. You have far too much to tell us."  The earl jerked his head and the paramedics took over.

*****

Mary Kaiser stepped lightly into her livingroom, pulling her dark green terry robe tight about her waist.  She then flipped the ends of her towel over her head, down her back.  "Any news?"

"The purple headdress just makes it," Bernie deadpanned from the breakfast bar where he sat in pyjama trousers and undershirt.  He put up his hands to ward off her evil glare.  "Seriously, babe, nothing new.  He's four hours overdue at the hotel…."

"It's a safe bet he'll never check in."

"Aren't we the pessimist?  Anyway, the local authorities haven't found anything, so they've widened the search to include the whole shire.  Nothing yet."

The phone cut off any reply.  Bernie grabbed it on the second trill as Mary threw herself on her Danish modern sofa.  Hugging herself, she closed her eyes, listened to her lover.  "Bernard Mays, Inspector Rowan."  Silence.  He began popping his jaw.  Mary sighed.  _He's upset.  This cannot be good news._  "I see, Inspector.  No trace of Robert and Suzanne Hogan."  Silence again.  "Thank you, Inspector."  He put the phone down.

"Well?" Mary pounced.

"They've found the saloon.  It's at a garage in a small town.  Brakes had been blown…."

"Four separate plastic explosive charges, one detonator with a centrifugal switch," she hissed.  _A very professional job._

"Exactly.  But the car's not totaled.  From what Inspector Rowan can put together, the chief lost the brakes and plowed into a flock of sheep before hitting a stone wall."  Mary rolled her eyes, made an unladylike noise in exasperation.  "There is blood in the interior of the car, and since the windscreen--excuse me, the windshield--didn't break, we can be pretty sure that it's human."

"How much blood?"

"Apparently, lots of it on the steering wheel.  Not so much on the passenger side.  They're checking the local infirmaries and cottage hospitals for the chief and his bride now."

Mary felt herself losing control.  _I don't want you to be dead, Boss.  I can't face the thought of you actually being dead._  She remembered how caring he'd been when Bernie'd come back from the Middle East in critical condition, not expected to live. _I cried on your shoulder like a little kid when you told me._  She'd realized he'd known about their liaison from the beginning.  He'd kept quiet, neither embarrassing them nor passing judgment on them. She shook her head, trying to dispel her new habit of thinking of Hogan in the past tense.  "Well, I'd better call Sir James."

"What for?  There's nothing he can do."

"Boss' standing order:  if anything happens to him, I'm to notify Sir James.  He gets the job of telling Boss' children."  She paused. "I'd say something had had happened."

"Yeah, but we don't know what.  For all we know, he's in a local hospital."  Funereal silence fell between them.  He licked his lips.  "Better safe than sorry, I guess.  Go ahead."  _God, she can jump a conclusion.  _

*****

In his pyjamas, Robert Hogan, his head pounding, slowly made his way to the drinks cabinet, poured himself 3 fingers of Irish whiskey, and immediately drained half of it.  _It has been one miserable day:  2 attempts on my life, the 2nd one injuring me and Suzanne; a major row with Patrick, the car a probable write-off, dead sheep and rising insurance rates. What a helluva day!_  He drained his whiskey completely before hopping over to his desk to dial Mary.  The line was engaged.  _This is just perfect!  Every time I try to call, it's busy_.  He slammed the receiver down, but remained standing at the desk, his right foot raised behind him.

The door to the study opened, and Hogan looked up to see his son enter with a sandwich and a glass of milk. He smiled fondly.  "Midnight snack, Patrick?"  _The kid's got two hollow legs._

Patrick looked over, startled. He spluttered, "What are you doing here, Dad? I mean you're supposed to be on your honeymoon in the Lake District."  He gave his father the once over.  "You've looked better."

Hogan responded sourly. "No kidding. I look like a raccoon."  His broken nose had blackened both eyes.  The cut above his left eyebrow only added injury to insult.  

"What happened?"  Patrick's voice barely hid his anxiety.

Hogan didn't feel like going into details, not wanting to scare his son any further.  "Car wreck."

"Are you two all right?  How'd you get home?" He tried to keep his voice level.  Setting down his snack, Patrick walked over to his father and saw the upheld, taped ankle. He exhaled in irritation.  "Dad, you need to elevate that foot and stay off of it as much as possible. Frankly, you should be in bed."  Shepherding his father over to the sofa, Patrick put a pillow under the severely sprained joint.

_The boy's been taking bulldozing lessons from Dick._  "We've got lots of bruises, several cuts, and some severe sprains.  Both Suzanne's wrists, my ankle. That's it.  Between the two of us, we make a whole human being.  And we took a coach to Victoria Station."  Hogan leaned back against the sofa; lassitude began to overwhelm him, scattering his thoughts. He looked up at his worried son, gave him a tired smile.  "Patrick, be prepared for some real silliness.  Suzanne on painkillers sounds like a 16 year old gigglepuss."  Tittering constantly, she'd been enormously suggestive when he'd undressed her and put her to bed.  _I'd love to see what champagne does to her_.

"I wouldn't have guessed that."  He watched his father drift closer to sleep; the head started to nod limply toward the chest.  "That's it, Dad, you're going to bed.  Where you belong."  


	5. St John the Baptist

London, England:  The Nativity of St. John the Baptist

"Of course, I did it!  Who the hell else would you expect, Steve?"  Hogan yelled into the receiver. 

Bernie Mays sat down in front of the chief's desk to wait for the gale to blow itself out.  

"Why, you ask?  Pretty simple.  You insulted my wife." 

Bernie twiddled his thumbs.  

"Keep up with the world, will you, Steve?  Not Miriam.  Suzanne."  Hogan fiddled with the slender gold band on his right hand.  "Well, Steve, you did threaten to take care of her, and since you're a man of your word--take that as a compliment--I knew it was you."  

Bernie rifled through the most recent reports and telexes.   

"Fine, Steve.  You've made your point.  Give my regards to Lottie."  Hogan held the phone away from his ear for a few seconds before hearing the prince slam his receiver down.   "It gets him every time."

"What was that?  I wasn't paying attention, chief."

Hogan looked over his half-eyes perched on the end of his still sore nose.  "Madame la princesse's name is Marie-Charlotte, and I always call her Lottie.  It doesn't bother her, but it drives her husband up a wall."   He snorted fondly.  "Lottie de Poulenac really is his better half.  If it weren't for her, he'd wouldn't be human at all."

"You mean His Imperiousness actually IS human?  Does the French government know?"

Hogan closed his eyes wearily.  "Okay, Bernie, what's the latest?"  He rubbed his temples.

"Well, we've finally caught up with that turkey from the embassy in Bonn; he's on his way back to the States for trial."

"Any reason given?"

"Money."

Hogan leaned back in his chair, putting both hands behind his head.  "You know, I miss the old days when people sold out because they thought the other side was right.  Nowadays, it just goes to the highest bidder."

"Waxing a little nostalgic, Boss?"  Mary dropped a pile of mail on his desk.  Hogan glanced quickly at it and then at her.  "The latest from Washington, Paris, Rome, and Bonn."

"Any of it urgent?"

"Nothing that won't keep till tomorrow, Boss.  You need to go pick up your car."  

He ignored her disapproving look.  "What's your problem?"  

"You could have gotten the saloon repaired.  But oh, no.  You're feeling frisky now, so let's go for an XKE."

"It's called an E-type in Britain, dear."  Hogan got up, picked up his cane and hat, and sauntered out the door, calling over his shoulder, "I promise to be careful, Mother."  

Bernie chortled as Mary balled her hands on her hips.

*****

Hogan pulled up in front of his home.  His new Jaguar convertible, in British racing green, had purred as he'd guided it through London traffic.  _I can't wait to open this baby up on the highway. _ He ran his hand down the pristine bonnet.

"A new toy, dahling?"  Hogan spun around to see Marya with her two wolfhounds.  They were trying to jump on him, to lick his face; she restrained them with difficulty.  "Aren't you a little old for this sort of thing?"

Biting back a curse, he searched her face quickly.  "And what number face lift are we on now?  Two or is it three?"  He watched her eyes grow stormy.  "You walked right into that one, Marya."   

Stepping up to the dogs, he chucked them under their chins and scratched their ears. They succeeded in licking his hands and face. "Nice to see you two. You do well by them, Marya.  I knew you would."  He remember the basket he'd sent to the Soviet embassy 18 months ago with the two large furballs.  And the tag that had read, 'Marya, Merry Christmas. Robert Hogan.'   

She harrumphed.  "Boris and Natasha make excellent company."

"Better than Dmitri?"

"Actually, yes."

"That's what you get for robbing the cradle.  Next time, try somebody who's at least 30."  He watched her smolder.  _You might try somebody your own age.  You'll probably find him less impatient and less selfish._

"Very funny," she snapped.  "Enjoy your new toy."  She pulled Boris and Natasha away from the American and started down the street.  She turned back suddenly, calling out, "Robert Kyrilivich!"

Hogan stopped at his front door.  It took him a few seconds to recall that Kyril was as close as one got in Russian to Kevin, his father's name. She only called him this on rare, serious occasions. "Da, Masha?"  He used the affectionate diminutive.

"Ivanova's game was not mine."

"I didn't think it was.  You do know what happened to her?"

"Shot by the earl of Suffolk, died of her wound on the operating table--after spilling nothing but useless information."

"Not so useless, Masha, as you well know.  But damage control always was your forte.  As well as getting other people to do your dirty work for you."

She shrugged broadly as the dogs barked, their woofs shattering the quiet afternoon. "Can you imagine her in my place?"

A few seconds of silence.  "No."  _So, it WAS more about you than me.  Ivanova got what she deserved, then._

Marya smiled brilliantly.  "Ah, you care!"   She blew a kiss at him, then waved extravagantly as the wolfhounds pulled her down the street.

_Believe it or not, Marya, I have a certain degree of trust in you.  I trust you not to be an idiot, even if you are about as subtle as a brick!_

*****

Hogan put his hand to the doorknob; his attention turned to the domestic.  He heard what sounded like a loud, mutually unintelligible argument between his wife and his son. _Patrick must have discovered Clouseau!  Who has undoubtedly gone after GDP again._  Hogan looked over at the convertible and then back to the door and muttered to himself, "I came home for this?" Screwing his courage to the sticking place, he boldly strode through the front door.  "Hi, honey, I'm home," he bellowed.

No response.  Shouting in rapid-fire French, Suzanne shook her finger under Patrick's nose.  In return, Patrick gesticulated wildly with both arms, hollered back in Welsh.  GDP flapped past Hogan's head as Clouseau, Suzanne's new, large Himalayan, tried leaping for the parrot from the antique mirrored stand.   Hogan watched the cat miss--again.  _Oh, that cat is aptly named.  _The noise gave him a headache, and he put his thumb and his index finger to his lips and whistled loudly.  At the sudden silence, he smiled and said softly, "Thank you."

"Dad!"

"Robert!"

"Knock it off, both of you!  Suzanne, go get your scarf and sweater.  We're going out."  At her apparently truculence, he raised his eyebrows.  She snorted indignantly and stalked away.  Hogan turned to his son, "Patrick, the Feline is now a member of the household."

"Dad, you hate cats."

"No, I'm just allergic to them."

"Then why in God's name to do you allow one in the house?"

"For the same reason I allowed your mother to have that stupid bird:  it's what she wanted."  At Patrick's half turn and broad shrug in utter incomprehension, Hogan added, "Look, cat fur and parrot feathers up the nose are equally irritating."

"And you sleep with the cat, I suppose?" Patrick asked sarcastically.

"Did I sleep with the parrot?" Hogan shot back.  "Don't worry about GDP, Patrick.  Clouseau has a chance of catching him.  Somewhere between slim and none."

"All right, Robert, I'm ready.  This had better be good."  She stepped through the door Hogan had opened for her then stopped dead.  He bumped into her.  "Incroyable," she cried.

"So, you approve?" .

"Oui."  She smiled broadly at him and tied her scarf under her chin.  "We're going for a spin?"  There was plenty of girlish excitement in her voice.

"That's the general idea."

Patrick followed them out, took in the car.  "I thought you were getting the new XJ6."

"The waiting list was too long. I did give some consideration to the 2 + 2, but decided against it.  Line wasn't right, and its performance wasn't as good."  He held the door for Suzanne as she slid into the passenger seat.

"Why didn't you go for an Aston-Martin?"

"Do I look like James Bond to you?"

Patrick groaned.. "Dad, this is only a two-seater."  

"Yes, I know.  That was the whole idea.  And no, you can't borrow it." _I know what you're thinking, and not with my car you don't! _ He turned the ignition; the engine roared to life.  "See you later," he called before pulling into traffic.  Suzanne waved gaily back at Patrick.


End file.
